


for the vastly spinning universe, to stand perfectly still

by freudiancascade



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peter Nureyev Is So Fucking Done With Mars, aftermath of canon violence/torture, fortunately: peter's finally found somebody who's as Extra as he is, jupeter, missing scene towards the end of Final Resting Place, no seriously the eye thing is in here, the eye thing, unfortunately: juno steel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13511973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/pseuds/freudiancascade
Summary: Midway through the drive back to civilization, Nureyev begins to suspect that getting Juno to agree to step foot into a doctor's office -- especially for medical attention that is very urgently needed -- might to be a lot like trying to have a sensible conversation with a malnourished, traumatized, bloodied, hissing, scratching, one-eyed feral cat.It turns out mildly better than that, but only barely.





	for the vastly spinning universe, to stand perfectly still

      Peter Nureyev hadn't thought it would be possible for Juno to look any worse than he had in that -- that tomb. Or birthing chamber. Or whatever it was supposed to be (because frankly, Peter had found his usual zest for information to be somewhat tempered by recent events, a distressing turn that he hoped would pass shortly). It didn't matter much, in the grand scheme of things. They were alive, and that place had vanished in the rearview mirror of the RUBY7, and that was the end of it. No point in looking back, not when so much future stretched out before them like the endless desert sands.

     The problem was, the light of day was even less kind to the detective than the artificial bulbs that illuminated those ghastly caverns had been. At least under the fake glow, he could convince himself that some of the detective's pallor was due to lighting. Now that they were miraculously alive and free and driving off across the Martian desert into the metaphorical sunset (the sun was actually in the process of rising, which was less thematically fitting and overall quite inconsiderate of it), Juno Steel looked -- to not put too fine a point on it -- absolutely  _dreadful_. 

     Especially not now that Nureyev could clearly see Juno's right eye. Or, rather, where Juno's right eye had been.

     Peter cleared his throat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other with fingers laced tightly between Juno's (the detective was allowing _that_ small intimacy, at least). "I know a doctor in Olympus Mons. Very skilled, very discreet. We'll go there now, and I simply won't hear an argument from you on the matter."

     "Like hell we will," Juno snarled, not lifting his head from the window. "As much as I'd love to have more electrodes jammed into my brain, I'm going to have to take a hard pass on that one."

     "You are bleeding all over the car, Juno! You need proper medical attention!"

     "It's fine, I've got paper towels at home. I'll clean up your stupid precious stolen car later. Won't even make you return it when I'm done, if that shuts you up." He thumped his head into the window with a groan that was more involuntary than not -- sure, the sound coming out of Juno's mouth had aimed for sarcasm, but in practice it had only hit pain.     

     "Juno! That's not the issue here and you know it!"

     "You're right, the _real_ issue is the sun. It's too bright and I hate it."

      Peter adjusted the tint on the windows even darker with a flick of his thumb, and bit his lip. "You really _do_ look terrible."

     "And I'm seeing even worse, thanks." Juno glanced briefly back over at Peter, and groaned. "If it's bothering you that much, check the dash, I'll wear sunglasses if you find any. Happy?"

     "Detective, I swear to all the gods in all the galaxies, I will sedate you if I need to! You need to see a doctor, and that's not up for debate!"

     "Nureyev, trust me, if you even _think_ about sedating --"

     "You wouldn't know if I thought about it, now, would you? Not after doing THAT to yourself!" Peter's voice rose sharply, and Juno winced at the volume. 

     Of course, Peter knew he wasn't exactly in prime condition, himself. He was simply choosing to ignore his own exhaustion and myriad pains, for the sake of expediency and practicality. There was nothing wrong with him that time, rest, a spa visit or two, and perhaps several rounds of laser scar removal treatments couldn't wipe away. In fact, the rejuvenation process might even turn out to be quite pleasant. Always nice to have an excuse to indulge in self-care. In his line of work, one simply had to become accustomed to the reality of physical injury -- the pain would pass, and he would be perfectly fine. No worse for wear. Perhaps his newfound distaste for card games would linger, and that would be sad, but still no great loss.

     After all, the worst injuries Miasma could inflict upon him were still entirely physical.  

     Juno, though. Dear, stubborn,  _incredible_  Juno hadn't been nearly as lucky. Peter had done his best to clean the other man off before emerging back into the world, tried to wipe off the blood with a cool cloth and talk the detective's vision back into some semblance of focus. It was a familiar routine by now. Peter had come to know the planes of the detective's face and body on an intimate level through the acts of cleaning blood, of wrapping wounds, of supporting limbs too weak to carry themselves to a safer place to sleep. But this time, the overall impact of that effort had simply been to expose to the light of day exactly how much damage had actually been done to Juno over their weeks in the monster's lair, and it was a little bit harder to remain blithely optimistic with the sunrise staring them both down.

     Apparently it was also a little harder for Juno to remain conscious -- Peter didn't see him slip away, but felt the grip on his hand slacken. Traced his fingertips up to the detective's wrist and found a pulse, and kept driving. Nothing to do but keep moving forward, after all. Into the sunrise. 

* * *

     "No, no, definitely not, nope," Juno said, grabbing at the car door like he was going to wrench it open and swan dive out onto the freeway from three storeys up. 

     Actually, Peter wouldn't have put it past him. He hadn't even noticed the detective return to consciousness, Juno had slipped back as quickly and quietly as a thief in his own right. The RUBY7 had apparently run the probabilities and decided she was having none of it, clicking the door loudly and beeping angrily, and Juno spun to Peter with something almost like panic scrawled across his face. "I fucking _said_ I wasn't going to your doctor, wasn't going to let anybody else poke around in my --"

     "Juno, listen to me. You need to get your eye taken care of. We can't leave Mars with it like that, nobody in their right mind would want to do a light speed jump with that kind of injury! This doctor is the best I've dealt with on this planet, they'll be fast and discreet."

     "I don't care!" Juno said, his voice breaking. Peter slammed the brakes, ignoring the screeching and honking of the vehicles behind him.

     "What do you suggest, then!? Leaving it isn't an option."

     "I know! I -- Jesus, I know. Okay? I want -- there's a doctor I always see, back to Hyperion City. She owes me her life at least three times over, we're going there," he announced, staring Peter down with all the intensity he could muster. Which was, being Juno Steel, an incredible amount of intensity.

     Peter sighed and twisted the wheel. At least Juno had backed down from _no doctors at all, ever_ , so this was a compromise. Good enough.

* * *

      "Next!"

     They shuffled toward in line. At least Juno was out of the car and on his feet of his own accord this time, though walking in a straight line across the parking lot had presented an entirely new set of problems. They'd ended up with Juno's head on Peter's shoulder, Peter's arm around Juno's waist, their steps carefully in-time with one another to stay upright and moving through the sliding glass doors into the dingy reception area beyond. Peter hadn't even been entirely convinced it _was_ a doctor's office, the decaying side of the building plastered with advertisements for improbable pharmaceuticals and even less plausible "reality" television series.

     The receptionist looked them both up and down, and if she was at all surprised by either of their conditions, it didn't register on her face. "Tell me what you need t'bug a doctor for."

     "I should think it would be obvious," Peter said between pinched lips. "In addition, we still haven't entirely ruled out him needing to be sedated if he refuses to behave." The thief shifted his shoulder to better support the detective's weight, the detective elbowed the thief in the ribs, and both of them scowled in unison. 

     "He usually does, because he usually doesn't," drawled the clerk, looking Juno up and down with a mixture of boredom and resignation. Blew a bubble with her gum, popped it sharply against the roof of her mouth, and blinked as something occurred to her. "Heeeey. You're not Rita! She finally get fed up with his garbage and quit or somethin'? Good for her, oh, I'll have to give Franny a call and let her know, she'll be dying to find out. Listen, speaking of that: are ya actively dyin' or something? Or can ya take a seat and wait for your number to be called like everyone else?"

     Peter gasped, drawing himself up to full height. "Look at him! He's very clearly --"

     "Fine! I'm fine!" Juno snatched the piece of paper off the proffered pad, wrinkling his nose and wadding the number in his hand before Peter could properly read it. 

     So there they were, tangled together across two chairs in the waiting room. Across from them, a woman was retching into a paper bag. Two rows over, a gentleman was sniffling at an arm that seemed to have one too many bends in it. A pale teenager was snoozing into the corner of the wall. Something hummed, something buzzed, and every muscle in Peter's body throbbed. He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, his chin tilting into the now-familiar mess of Juno's hair. Just needed a moment to breathe. Just one. Just a moment longer. Just --

     -- and then Juno was shaking him awake by the shoulder, and Peter was opening his eyes with a start, wrenching his mind back from a morning that was coming too soon, to a place without time and without anywhere to run and without sunrises and sunsets, just ghastly walls staring them down and cards to turn and blood and pain and Juno, looking lost and out of focus, beyond hearing Peter call his name --

     -- no, no, they were fine. They were in the worst medical clinic Peter had ever seen, and this time a physical pen-and-paper number was the only thing that had been called, and Juno Steel was tugging them both to their feet.

     They were fine. Peter Nureyev took one deep breath, and then another. Glanced out at the parking lot, at the clouds gathering in the ceiling of a sky, and tried to steady his heart. 

* * *

      At least doctor's offices looked mostly the same no matter what planet you were on. Nureyev surveyed it with brief distaste, decided it was clean and functional enough, and hauled Juno up onto the examination table. Got him settled, and sat down on the hard plastic chair beside him, lacing their fingers together once more. Again, Juno allowed it, anchoring his thumb against the heel of Peter's palm as the doctor -- a brisk woman with wide shoulders and cropped black hair -- strode into the room. Without being asked, she shone a light into the detective's eye socket and tsked under her breath.

     "Tell me what happened to you this time."

     "I got shot."

     "And -- your optic nerve, that's --"

     "One hell of a bullet, okay?"

     The doctor settled back on her stool, which creaked under her weight. "Mister Steel, I can't help you if I don't know what you did to yourself. We do this song and dance every time."

     "Trust me, you don't wanna know this one."

     "Trust me, I very much do."

     "Fine. Fine! You want a fun story? I swallowed an ancient Martian McGuffin Happy Meal, grew a mind-reading tumor around my optic nerve, got it poked and prodded a whole bunch, bled a lot out of some very inconvenient orifices, then the damn thing exploded when I waved it around too close to the head of a Lovecraftian monster. Is that gonna fit on your stupid patient chart?"

     The doctor's mouth formed into a thin line, and she shook her head. "Fine, Mister Steel. You get kudos for effort and specificity, but point taken. I was just trying to help, but if you want to be like that, so be it. You. Got. Shot. Have it your way."

     Juno shot Peter a Look over her shoulder out of his remaining eye, _equal parts get a load of this garbage_ and _I fucking told you this was a bad idea_. Despite himself, Peter's spine curved into the plastic chair as he tried to suppress a grin.

     The doctor stepped around the table to get to her computer, tapped at her keyboard, and lifted a small laser tool. As she passed back towards Juno, Nureyev palmed a small plastic chip, tugging on her coat just enough to draw her attention as he released the creds into her pocket. "I'd appreciate if we could speed this along with no further questions, please. My detective is getting antsy again." And gave his most winning smile.

     It _was_ an incredibly winning smile, if Peter Nureyev could be a judge of such things for himself. The doctor accepted the money, finally administered the sedative, and got to work.

     After the anesthetic began to kick in and Juno's grip loosened on Peter's hand, the only task for Nureyev was to keep his mouth shut and trying to not watch too much of the process. It made his stomach tie in knots, anyways. He was generally not squeamish, but then, this was Juno, and that meant an exception to all the usual certainties. So. Best to let the doctor handle things.

     It didn't take as long as he'd expected, either. The task of cleaning the wound involved removing chunks of dark tissue and lasering away contaminants. Taking measurements for a prosthetic with a different laser, sending them to a three-dimensional printer that hummed and burped away in the corner. Packing the eye socket with medicine to control the bleeding, bring down the swelling, and ease the pain. Bring the detective back around to fit the prosthetic. Answering questions, making referrals for follow-ups, dispensing prescriptions, carefully avoiding dancing anywhere near the question of what kind of tissue, exactly, had just been pulled out of the remains of Juno's optic nerve.

     Peter tapped his feet against the worn-out tiles, held Juno's callused hand, and tried not to count the hours until they could leave his horrorshow of a planet behind.

* * *

      When they hit the sidewalk again, Juno was much steadier on his feet, the sun was setting behind them, and it was starting to rain.

     The problem with a terraform dome was always the moisture, the accumulated sweat and waste and water that people gave off. It accounted for 80% of their mass, after all. And the newer arrivals, the ones for whom earth was more than a distant textbook memory, missed weather, yearned for it with every fibre of their being even if they didn't know that was what their biology was craving, for the days to be carved out by their surroundings into slightly different shapes. So the water would evaporate, be collected in filtration tanks at the top of the dome, and eventually be released back to the ground. People caught the water in barrels, let it run into the soil, funnelled it into their gardens, complained when it continued on for too long. A taste of home inside a closed system, Hyperion City in the rain. 

     Juno silently tipped his head up to let the rain run down his face, his shoulders shuddering. Both eyelids closed, and in that moment, it was impossible to tell what he'd lost.

     Nureyev supported him even though he didn't need it as much anymore, feeling the cool drizzle run down his hair. Tried not to feel guilty, knowing exactly what he'd found.

     "We'll be alright, you know," he said under his breath, soft as the whispering rain.

     "I know," was Juno's answer, and only now did he blink his eyes open to look at Peter's face. Frowned, one eyebrow pushing slightly further than the other, as though he was still trying to peer through Nureyev's skull and into the mind beneath. And then stopped, visibly winded. "Ow."

     Peter shook his head, running his hand up Juno's arm. "While you were unconscious, I found us a place to spend the night -- it's not far."

     "Good, I could use a walk."

     "That does make two of us," Nureyev said, glancing back over his shoulder to the empty spot where he'd left the car. The RUBY7 would come back around eventually, he had no doubt.

     Most things eventually did.

     That was the problem with chasing the sunrise -- sooner or later, it always became the sunset. The wind at your back will always eventually become the desert grit tossed in your face, if you keep moving in a straight line long enough for it to catch up with you. That was the key -- to keep moving, but never in the same way twice. Outsmart the atmosphere, and even geography would eventually give up trying to pin you down. Keep running sideways, and you'd always have somewhere open to disappear to.

     And maybe, if you were clever and stubborn and more than a little bit lucky, you'd find somebody worth running with, too.

     Peter looked over at Juno's face, the sharp angles and tired lines of his profile. Juno noticed his gaze and flashed a tired grin, no teeth. Squeezed his hand, firm and steady against the rain.

     And, just for a moment, Peter Nureyev wanted nothing more than for the vastly spinning universe to stand perfectly still.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, just screaming into the abyss because another podcast is giving me feelings. We're fine. It's all fine.
> 
> (Narrator: she wasn't fine.)
> 
> Thanks to the friends who prompted this, and especially @somerandomdork for Juno's quip about the paper towels.


End file.
